


moonlight red

by corvus_corvus



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Corrective Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/F, Out of Character, Referenced murder, Sexism, everyone is so out of character, implied/referenced past rape/non-con, mermaid au, siren au, switch out the character names and poof! no more fanfic!, this has almost zero relationship to the source material and i did it anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29651472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvus_corvus/pseuds/corvus_corvus
Summary: Fuuka is greeted by her wavering reflection in the water with tired eyes and all. It’s enough. She throws her scarf back to the shore and asks, “Just don’t let me drown, please.”“I would never, dearest.”
Relationships: Kirijo Mitsuru/Yamagishi Fuuka
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	moonlight red

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for referenced and attempted rape because I think those are topics that need to be handled maturely.
> 
> If you've experienced any of this or any other types of sexual assault, I am so sorry. You aren't alone. I'm here if you need me, and we can find the resources that will work for you together.

_“I just like to—”_

—

The sky is bright, the wind is strong, and the water is cold. This is where Fuuka lives, a coast with weather as fickle as the local legends. It is the fierceness of the natural world that leads to protective advice passed down through generations: a moon haloed means the weather will weigh heavy with water the very next day; when a deep-water fish washes up on shore, you must prepare for dangerous tides soon after.

Then there’s the one Fuuka’s mother repeats most: never turn your back on the ocean.

Fuuka always listens, always watches, so all _should_ be well. In June, her vigilance leads her find large scales she does not recognize on the shore. A lone boot washes up, surely the property of a sailor gone overboard in the past months, though none of the shipmates will confess why it happened. When one of the fishing traps Fuuka had repaired barely a week before goes missing, fear curls up and settles tight in her chest. The ocean is hungry, and the ocean will always take what it wants.

The townsfolk may be cautious, but they would not live here if they harbored only fear. Fuuka is calmed by them, and that is the only reason she is brave—ignorant, stupid—enough to row out to the edge of the bay when she spots a metallic flicker on a far rock the next day. The trap might just be caught on a jagged edge of coastline, she tells herself, and she should not be afraid of trying to reclaim her hard work from a rock. She wraps her scarf more firmly around her neck, fastens it with both knot and pin, and rows away from the morning sun.

If a clairvoyant had told her a week before that Fuuka would be glad that her fish trap was lost to the sea, she would have been puzzled. Yet here she is staring into the eyes of the ocean itself as claws rip the metal apart from all its weakest joints, feeling relief. The ocean is not just water, but a figure. Red hair trails over an almost-human face and and torso, but the scaled tail cutting through the waves has to belong to them as well, confirmed when the waves drop to reveal the transition of scarlet scales across their hip. There is another, too, caught and bleeding blue from cuts across its body and her fish trap once cutting into its tail. It must be a combination of her distance, the wind’s direction, and the red creature’s rage that allows her to go unnoticed so long, but finally she is caught. The injured one’s eyes widen and it opens its mouth with a high call.

“I’m sorry!” she yelps, covering her ears and cowering into her row boat. “I didn’t know you were here.” The call is cut off sharply, and when Fuuka looks up she catches a flash of scales diving back into the water. On the rock, the only thing left is the now-scrap metal, all creatures gone. Fuuka grabs her paddle and begins to row with the waves pushing her back home. But, of course, you must never turn your back on the ocean, so she watches over her shoulder the whole way. When she turns forward to navigate, she gasps. The red creature holds her boat still with one hand as the claws dig divots into the wood.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, hoping her tone is clear even if language fails to bridge them. It bares teeth at her, but slides back into the waves. Fuuka’s hands shake for the rest of the day.

She expects to dream of her own destruction at the hands of claws and teeth and scales, so Fuuka is surprised that her nightmares focus on the terror in the eyes of the injured creature. The strange blood it spilled across the rocks. The pain in its cry. Unable to sleep through the night, Fuuka throws herself into her work. She draws ideas for new tools and traps by moonlight, each iteration scrapped by the look of a harmed creature flickering behind her eyelids. Finally, she gives up. Reaching for bottle, cork, and note paper, she writes. Thinks. Hopes.

—

The message in a bottle Fuuka tied to the edge of the rock has been uncorked, note removed with no indication of a reply. Fuuka frowns at herself and her illogical behavior. Of course there was no reply. This letter relied on so many baseless assumptions. That they held the same language. That they read. That, even if the message was received, there was some way for a creature of water to effectively write back in the way she had, on items that could not withstand the ocean.

Even with her plea sent to the sea, Fuuka feels helpless. Her dreams only follow suit. The town is confused as to why her work has come to a halt, and some people even confront her about it. It’s too much to process. That’s how she finds spending so many nights on the beach staring into the waves, afraid to look away.

A low voice interrupts her thoughts. A spill of red on the black moonlit water.

“You had a question for me?”

“I—” Fuuka tongue fumbles as she fights the urge to run.

The creature pushes on. “‘How do I make sure you do not get hurt?’ That is what the note said. Why would you ask that?”

Fuuka reaches for the thoughts that were so persistent over the last few weeks, now evaporated upon confrontation. “We need to catch enough fish that we need to use nets and traps.To eat and to trade,” She takes a deep breath, “But there’s no reason for anyone else to have to get caught.” The creature pulls onto the shore, and Fuuka can finally see the brilliance of its shining scales in full. It tilts its head like it is looking for something. Under scrutiny, Fuuka feels acutely aware of the heavy silence between them. “I meant it, you know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was anything else out there that could get caught in those traps.”

“You did not know we live here?”

Fuuka looks at her feet, embarrassed. “I always thought stories about people in the ocean were the kinds you tell kids to scare them into behaving,” she admits. When there’s no reply, Fuuka tries to strike up conversation. “So, um, do you eat fish, too? Do you have any good recipes?”

Fuuka could have sworn she saw the the red creature smile, but it has already begun its slide back into the water. “Be here tomorrow night,” it commands.

“Okay,” Fuuka gasps.

—

_“I just like to play with them—”_

—

This time, Fuuka comes prepared. Her lantern sits in the sand next to her, and a stack of notebooks and drawing tools sit in the bag at her feet. She fiddles with the pin fastening her scarf while she watches the water. When the creature pops onto shore and says nothing, Fuuka freezes. Her bag of tools isn’t the only thing Fuuka has on her side, though. She has also rehearsed conversations in her head, nervous that a single mistake might harm this cautious dance between her and this other.

“My name is Fuuka,” she extends her hand and forces a soft smile. When the creature just looks at her, she pulls it back. “Thanks for agreeing to meet. What would you like to be called?”

“Names have power, Fuuka.”

Fuuka stutters. “O-oh. I guess that makes sense. Do you want me to call you—”

“She,” is the reply. “That will have to do for now.”

“It does,” Fuuka forces a smile.

“What did you have in mind to discuss?”

Leaning closer, Fuuka unrolls a drawing

“You made these etchings?” Fuuka pauses and nods, just once. “They are…superb,” and Fuuka fixates on the way her lips part around the consonants. Heat rises to her cheeks as she continues stretching out the paper, tries to let the compliment sink in without denial. 

Fuuka murmurs her thanks before clearing her throat, hoping to get back on her planned track. This improvisation is frightening. “I was trying to figure out how to not catch you while still catching fish, but I think it may work better if there’s some kind of failsafe instead.” Red leans over the paper, pulling back wet hair as she moves.

“Tell me more,” she says. So Fuuka does. She explains one-way hinges and spring loading and structural linchpins and all manners of traps until her hands pull away from her scarf to gesture with every breath. Fuuka can’t remember the last time she talked this much, if she ever has. Shame tightens her throat instantly. They sit quietly until Fuuka apologizes.

“What for? I found that quite enjoyable. Though,” she turns her gaze to the moon hiding beneath wispy fog, “I am afraid I may have to return home soon.”

“Of course,” Fuuka jumps, “but what should I do about—”

“Let us meet again once two nights have passed. I have much to think about.”

“Yes ma’am,” she mutters and barely catches the lift of a red eyebrow. But it’s not quite enough. She wants to put those feelings that let her talk freely into words and settles for the next best thing. “Thank you for listening. I know I can be, um, a lot.”

With a flip of red hair, She hums, “Perhaps for some. Not for me.” When she slips into the waves so smoothly as to leave only a hint of a ripple, Fuuka starts to wonder if she imagined the evening. Too much time thinking and tinkering away at machines, the townspeople always say of her. Yet when she hikes down to the shore two days later to be greeted by deep dark red draped along the pale sand, Fuuka starts to have a little faith.

After two weeks of moonlit work, She seems to return that faith. Fuuka stands and says her usual farewells when a voice stops her “Wait,” She looks up at Fuuka from beneath red lashes. “You may call me Mitsuru.” 

Fuuka’s heart beats faster. Mitsuru’s nostrils flare. Pupils widen.

—

The first time Fuuka rigged her strange message-in-a-bottle contraption to the shoal at the edge of their coast, she felt a little like she was wasting her time. All this work for one likely to be ignored message? It was almost shameful. Lucky for her, she feels vindicated as it begins to get good use.

_Dear Mitsuru,  
The sunset today looked like the ocean was on fire. It looked so bright and so warm.  
Thinking of you—Fuuka._

There’s a beautiful pink shell at their usual cove the next day. A simple shape is carved into the side with what Fuuka knows are sharp talons.

_Dear Mitsuru,_  
Someone told me again today that I talk too much. But this time I laughed! Can you believe it?  
Thank you for reassuring me—Fuuka. 

This time she finds a red stone, perfectly round and polished to shine, perched neatly on the top of the tide pools. Fuuka can’t recall ever seeing a rock this brightly hued, let alone set precariously on a rock too dry to be struck by waves.

She collects the gifts on her bedside table. No one comes by to ask about her collection, anyways.

—

_“You’re—”_

—

Knee-deep in water, Fuuka stands underneath the pier with her skirt hiked up. The sun is just starting to fall, and she can hear the quiet bustle of her town muffled by distance. Sleek red darts around her like a warning. If it was anyone besides Mitsuru, it just might be. Instead, Fuuka sees the laughter on her lips and playfulness of her movements as she flits through water like a misplaced shard of sunset.

They come from different worlds in almost the most literal way. Neither has ever denied it. But their conversations have prompted Fuuka to want to share pieces of her life with Mitsuru, to give her a chance to feel for herself all the little pieces of existence she talks about, like describing her perfect bread recipe. Mitsuru has mentioned the same when trying to explain the architecture of her underwater home or what it’s like for her to live in a place where red light will never reach when her scales burn so bright near the shore. So when Mitsuru wants to take Fuuka to her favorite cove, it’s not quite unexpected. And Fuuka wants it, but wanting does not always make it easy.

“Come join me. We’re still in the shallows.”

“For you, maybe,” Fuuka smiles. She takes two steps forward and pulls her skirt up that much higher.

Mitsuru giggles in reply. “True enough.” With a glint in her eye, Mitsuru flicks a light spray of water at Fuuka’s face. When she recoils, her hands instinctively move to cover her face and lets the hem of her skirt fall into the water and flow around her.

Laughing and spitting out water, Fuuka splashes back half-heartedly. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to share this with you. It would mean a lot if you would join me.” Her red tail fans out in front of her face, but Fuuka catches the hint of blue-purple high on her cheeks. _Blush_ , she thinks, _she’s blushing because of me?_

Mitsuru reads Fuuka’s silence like a book. “I take it back. Forgive me, I would never ask you to do something you are afraid of,” she adds, tone deep and rich. It’s nothing like the overpowering, high songs she’s heard Mitsuru sing late at night. This rings different. True.

Sighing, Fuuka thinks of the darkness of the water, the silence when submerged, the endless deprivation of direction. “ _It would mean a lot_ ,” she thinks, replays it in Mitsuru’s enchanting voice. When she looks down, Fuuka is greeted by her wavering reflection in the water with tired eyes and all. It’s enough. She throws her scarf back to the shore and asks, “Just don’t let me drown, please.”

“I would never, dearest,” stands out crisp above the swishing waves. And Fuuka jumps head first.

(She almost falls short, but Mitsuru is there to catch her anyways.)

—

It’s not something that’s instant, and it’s not something that makes sense. Sometimes feelings are like that, Fuuka tells herself, but she’s never liked it.

For months, she frets over the way Mitsuru is hard to read. Is she just kind? Is she just flirting? Well, there would be nothing _just_ about flirting. Fuuka feels her face got hot just thinking about it. 

Then she asks herself, “what would I do if I she was interested?” And her world falls apart. It’s only fair she presses Mitsuru to do the same.

“Why do you spend time with me?” Fuuka asks, carefully calculated carelessness in her voice.

“I truly enjoy our time.”

“I can’t be that interesting. Not with,” Fuuka fumbles, trying to untie her tongue without uncovering her heart, “Not with the life you lead.”

“Maybe excitement is not what I am here for.” Somehow it stings. Fuuka knows she was asking for it, and still. Her face must show it, because when Mitsuru looks over she tucks her hair behind an ear and flinches. “You are safe, Fuuka. You make me feel safe. It is different and, well, I like it.”

Fuuka loosen’s her scarf once she feels like she can breathe. “So you are,” she lets the silence finish the question for her.

Smiling, Mitsuru replies, “So I am.” 

In a moment, Fuuka turns the same shade as Mitsuru’s hair. “Oh. Thank you,” she stutters.

“Of course,” is punctuated with a kiss to Fuuka’s knuckles.

—

Her nighttime wanderings and fretting over the intricacies of mechanical traps—as a woman, no less—finally brand her something of a witch status. The town still cares, still appreciates her work, but they watch her in a way they didn’t used to. Fuuka wishes she could afford to mind, yet what does it matter when she intends to stay the course? An opportunity comes when the lighthouse keeper’s age forces them to return to their family home. She moves from her house on the main street to the lighthouse on the edge of town. It’s one more big machine for her to care for, like luminous clockwork, and she falls in love all over again. Most of all, it earns her a blissful reprieve from constant surveillance and an excuse for being up all night that is no longer subject to suspicion.

And, of course, she is closer to the sea in all her forms.

Considering her meetings with Mitsuru are arranged, it’s not something she thinks much of until the sound of something hitting the window of her shack at the foot of the lighthouse wake her up one night. When she opens her door to the roar of midnight waves, thick fog is the first thing she sees. The second is Mitsuru collapsed and clinging to the rocks at the base of the coast. With eyes half-lidded Mitsuru reaches out as Fuuka moves carefully down the jagged shore. It’s only when Fuuka lifts her onto her shoulder that she catches the crust of dried blood. Her own blood runs cold, but she moves because she has to. Throwing the door open, Fuuka dashes them straight to the bathroom. Fuuka kneels on the cold floor holding Mitsuru tight and counting her every shallow breath while she draws the bath. Only when Mitsuru has settled into the water does Fuuka take note of her injuries. Cuts cover her, shallow but present. A torn scab along her ribs tells of an older fight. Fuuka is most struck by her neck. There’s a hand-sized bruise dark across her throat, and the purple of her blood blossoming in the thin skin around Mitsuru’s eyes. 

“They hurt you,” Fuuka wants to scream. She settles for gritting her teeth. Mitsuru turns away from her gaze, but keeps her straight posture. Wringing her hands, Fuuka remembers herself. “Sorry. I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do. Please, just be careful.”

“It is fun,” Mitsuru explains. “What else is there to do? All the men out to sea want something from me. Everyone at home wants something from me. But here, I have control. They want me, and I can destroy them in return.”

Leaning her head against the lip of the bath, Fuuka sighs. “Okay,” she whispers. Mitsuru raises a hand to her cheek. Trails a talon down her shoulder, her arm, her wrist until she waits palm open at the tips of Fuuka’s fingers. Fuuka clasps their hands just as slowly, savoring the feeling of two pulses—both safe, both alive—keeping time. Just like that, Fuuka watches Mitsuru’s breathing even out until she drifts to sleep. Fuuka wishes she could do the same, but the knot in her chest keeps her awake. 

Before dawn breaks, Fuuka shakes Mitsuru awake, wishing she could see those drowsy eyes for any other reason but this. “Good morning,” she whispers, wishing she couldn’t see the blood twirling like smoke in the bathwater. “Do you need me to get you anything? Food, some kind of medicine?”

“Good morning, love.” The water laps at the tips of her hair as she stretches her arms. “I am afraid I need to go. There may be trouble in my absence.”

“One nap can’t have healed all your wounds,” Fuuka presses. “Your neck is still, it’s,” she trails off, unable to look Mitsuru in the eyes.

Mitsuru drags a talon across her own neck. “Yes, I am certain there is quite a mark. I can assure you it likely looks worse than the damage done.” She lets the silence stretch between them, poised still like a statue.

A million replies, questions, and pleas flit through Fuuka’s thoughts. “What happened?”

“Another man died trying to take that which is unwilling. The ocean is not to be toyed with,” she smiles, “I love when men are obsessed with me; it makes the game so much easier.”

“A game? They, they touch you and you kill them for it?”

“It’s the least I could do after all those men have done to me,” she snaps, “You must understand they do not see me as a person. To them, I am a thing. A thing to be used.”

“That I do understand,” Fuuka says as she brushes a thumb over Mitsuru’s bruised eyes.

“I am very sorry, but I must go.” And with that, Fuuka carries Mitsuru down the the shore scarlet scales and hair and fins and eyes shimmering as dawn breaks over the water. It’s so stunning Fuuka almost cries, and not for the first time she wishes she was privileged to witness Mitsuru’s glory under different circumstances. Mitsuru squeezes her hand once more before slipping back into the sea. Fuuka’s eyes are hot and stinging. It’s only then that she melts on the bathroom floor and sobs, draining bloody water from the bath.

She wishes she could say it was the last time.

—

_“You’re the one—“_

—

Her dreams are filled with red. Red blood and red scales and red feelings.

It doesn’t matter that Fuuka knows Mitsuru will— _does_ —do it herself, Fuuka wants to find the man— _men_ —who would ever dare touch her Mitsuru and wrap her own hands around their neck until they cry and cling and choke. See the marks and bruised eyes on their skin this time. See how they look scrambling for life, because how _dare_ they touch her? It doesn’t matter that Fuuka knows they are already dead, knows in the way that the townspeople talk of sailors gone missing. It doesn’t matter, because Fuuka wants to protect her. To yell and scream until they stay the hell away from the both of them. To kill all the men who would try and touch her and rape her and kill her.

Fuuka wakes up afraid of herself. The dreams continue.

—

“Why can’t this be enough for you?” Fuuka cries. What she wants to ask, wishes she had the courage to ask goes unsaid. _Why can’t I be enough for you?_ Greedy, selfish girl, the voice in her head call her. She knows Mitsuru would say the same if she asked. Instead she asks again, “Why can’t this be enough for you?” 

“I just like to play with them,” Mitsuru mutters, blood on her lips. “You’re the one I care about.”

_I know, I know,_ “I know,” Fuuka replies. She presses their foreheads together and cradles Mitsuru’s chin in her hands. “I know,” she whispers again.

It isn’t until they’ve parted ways, Fuuka leaning over the edge of the pier and staring at the moon, that she notices the smear of blood on her hands. She wonders who it belonged to. She wonders what it is she is guilty of. 

—

_“I just like to play with them. You’re the one I care about.”_

_Were you playing with me, too, all this time?_

—

A full moon on a clear night should feel like a good omen. With her decision, Fuuka knows no amount of good omen is enough to cut the sting. She doesn’t even register the words that come out of her mouth, but Mitsuru’s reply is clear.

“You do not want me to want you.”

“I think I do.”

“You will _die_ ,” Mitsuru says, tone cold.

Fuuka grabs her shoulder and leans in close, their lips less than a breath apart. Mitsuru smells like the salt of the depths, the chill of the wind, the spark of the looming storm. Watching Mitsuru’s nostrils flare, Fuuka is sure she smells like fresh blood. “I’m tired of saying everything is fine. I’m tired of the weight of knowing you’re being hurt and hurting others,” Fuuka whispers. “Most of all, I’m selfish. I’m tired of not being enough for you,” 

“You are enough. You have always been enough for me.”

Throwing her scarf on shore, Fuuka wades into the water shivering. “Please.”

She’s greeted with a blank stare, and Mitsuru starts to sing in the way Fuuka has always hated. It’s high and fake and sounds nothing, _nothing_ like the woman she loves. The song pulls her in anyways, just as the magic is designed to do, and Fuuka feels herself slipping away. She’s not even sure who it is in front of her for a moment, and she seizes in fear at the thought. It’s Mitsuru, Mitsuru, Mitsuru, the being who has always drawn her into her orbit with so little as a kind word. How could she forget? Fuuka—is that her name?—kisses her neck, it’s Mitsuru, _finally_ , and she cries out with joy.

Mitsuru holds Fuuka close as she starts to sway under the spell. “I’ve always wanted you.” Her throat closes up; she can’t fathom singing another word. “I’ve just never wanted _this_ for you.” And when Fuuka’s eyes close, Mitsuru drags them both on shore. A cry sounds from the edge of the sand when Mitsuru pauses to refasten Fuuka’s scarf. Suddenly a group of people are closing in. She is drowning is shouts and insults and the adrenaline of being stabbed before she can slide back into the water, blood swirling like smoke. 

When Fuuka comes too, it’s to panic surrounded by familiar faces. She has blue-purple blood across her cheek. Blood smeared on her scarf. She is instantly afraid, but too worried and hazy to realize the consequences of her next words until they’re already said. “Is she okay?”

“The creature?” One of them scoffs, “She must have done something to your head.”

She holds out her scarf, showing the blood. “She’s hurt. What did you do to her?”

“You aren’t worried—”

“What did you _do_?” she yells, and when a man reaches for her wrist to calm her, she slaps it away. His eyes darken.

“You need to listen, girl. The ocean is dangerous, and that thing is from the ocean. You shouldn’t care about it.”

They turn their back on the sea, but Fuuka never could. So she snaps, “I do care. I care about her so, so much I can’t take it. I—” This time, she’s surrounded. When she dodges one set of hands grabbing at her, there’s another already clamped on her shoulders, then gripping her waist, then her chin.

“It’s not human.”

“ _I know_.”

“It’s a woman. Like you.”

“And I _love_ her,” she shouts, “I love her so much no matter how hard I try not to.”

“Sounds like you’re confused, but I think we can,” one of the hands—one of the men—pulls at her hair with a laugh, “I think we can fix that. You just need a real man to show you what’s right.” And Fuuka tries to writhe out of their gasp, but she’s never been a fighter in this way, and four people closed in on her is so so many and her head’s already hazy from Mitsuru’s spell and, and, and. She can’t breathe. Her throat is closed and she can’t make a sound no matter how her lips may shape the words. She freezes even when she doesn’t want to, when her mind is screaming to run. Somehow, the hand slipping beneath her skirt is enough to make her push back and away, some shot of panic helping her push away. She crumples to the ground and lunges out of their caged bodies, stumbling off the pier edge and into the sand. 

On overdrive and numb all at once, Fuuka’s senses catch on the yelling at her back, the crunch of sand, She doesn’t know where she’s running until she does: the water black with night, but sparkling promises that remind her of Mitsuru’s eyes.

And when she throws herself into the waves, Fuuka swears she feels something—some _one_ —catch her.

—

_“You’re the one I care about.”_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading. This story is very personal, so while you are always responsible for choosing how you reply I would like to request a little tenderness even to your critiques. I'm not entirely satisfied with this work myself, but I really needed to bleed it out of my system. 
> 
> I wrote so many endings; maybe I'll throw up the alternates sometime. I'm very sorry to be giving you sad wlw content, so I hope to make it up to you someday.
> 
> —
> 
> Did you know that sirens are originally half human and half bird instead of half fish? I sure didn't until I already wrote this story with "siren" as the working title. I kept it in the tags anyways because it's a basically a colloquialism by now.


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